


Plague Maker

by LectorEl



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Imported from Tumblr, Tim works for Ra's, originally posted in 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: “Drake.” Tim looks up from his microscope, mentally saying goodbye to this particular batch of virii at the sight of his master’s very, very estranged grandson.





	Plague Maker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jayeinacross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayeinacross/gifts).



> Sort of 100 Nights inspired, plus miss Hearts’ Tim-as-Q drabbles. Look, I don’t even know, alright? Tim made some sort of devil’s bargain with Ra’s for something important, and he ended up specializing in germ warfare while in his service. It’s a weird fic. For Jayinacross, though I’m not entirely happy with this one either.

The tug at his shirt makes Tim look down, to see his Master’s young grandson. Damian’s no more than six, and according to the gossip he’s picked up, already a murderer several times over. Tim feels an uncomfortable blend of pity and admiration for the child.

“Can I help you Damian?” Tim asks, scooping the little boy up into his lap. Damian winds one hand into the hem of Tim’s T-shirt, poking at the petri dishes Tim was preparing with the other.

“Can you make me some smallpox?” Damian asks. Tim’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“Smallpox, Damian, really? Why would you want something like that?”

“Mother wants me to kill someone better than me. I need to be sneaky,” Damian says, staring at Tim seriously. Tim grins, and ruffles his hair.

“I don’t know about smallpox, but I can probably make you something.” Tim stands, lifting Damian as he did, and walked over to the new filing cabinet that had been designated for Tim’s use. “Tell me about your target.”

***

“Drake.” Tim looks up from his microscope, mentally saying goodbye to this particular batch of virii at the sight of his master’s very, very estranged grandson.

“Is there a reason you’re here, Damian?” Tim asked warily. It had been nearly five years since the last explosive incident where Damian interacted with the league proper, and he had little hope time had done anything to mellow his temper.

“The antidote,” Damian demanded flatly.

Tim looked at him over the top of his safety glasses, eyebrows arching. “A, you’ll have to be more specific than that, and b, no.”

“No?” Damian repeated. The look on his face was completely baffled, and Tim felt a curl of fond amusement. He’d grown so much.

“No. Your defection was rather public, Damian, and I serve the House al Ghul. Of which you are no longer a member.” Tim grimaced. “I’m sorry Damian. But I swore an oath, and I can’t break it.”

“Dick Grayson.”

Tim froze. “I’m sorry? I don’t-”

“Your plague infected Dick Grayson, and if you don’t give me the antidote, he’ll die,” Damian said, cutting Tim off. He grabbed Tim’s wrist, staring at him with the same eyes that had convinced Tim to brew plagues and minor illnesses, to lie to and mislead his master. Damian had always had too much sway over his behavior, since he was little boy and precociously aware of adult biases. “He has thirty-two hours left. Give me the antidote.”

“No.” But Tim’s denial was weak. He could never deny Damian anything he really wanted, and Damian knew it. Damian’s smile was smug enough that Tim would have swatted him if he thought he had a chance of connecting. The boy had grown up to be such a _brat_. 

“We both know you’re going to give it to me,” Damian said, smirking. “You might as well save yourself some time.”

“Little brat,” Tim muttered. He stalked over to one of the far filing cabinets, and pulled open the top drawer roughly. _Infectious, Airborn, Gotham, April…_

“Here. Page twelve,” Tim said, shoving the file at Damian. “The antidote needs to stay at 98.6 degrees precisely the entire time, or it will act as a poison instead. Now go away.”

“Thank you.” Damian bowed his head mockingly. He swept out of the room with all the smug confidence of the prince he no longer was.

“Fuck,” Tim muttered, and buried his head in his hands. His master wasn’t going to like this.

***

“You allowed Damian to access the cure,” Ra’s said. Tim could detect nothing in his voice, and that was enough to unsettle him. He’d been in Ra’s service since his mother had passed on, and he’d long grown accustomed to reading his moods.

The sudden blankness had frightening implications for the severity of Ra’s displeasure. Tim’s grip on his teacup tightened, and he took a shaky sip to cover his sudden attack of nerves. Despite the warmth of Ra’s’ receiving room, he felt chilled.

“I did.” There was no point in trying to deny it, and he might win some clemency by honesty. Or partial honesty, in any case. “Damian took advantage of my…weaknesses regarding his eldest brother.”

“I see.” Ra’s’ focus made Tim feel like a mouse under the eye of a particularly hungry owl. “I suppose the threat would prove effective, used again?”

Tim wet his lips, briefly closing his eyes as the room blurred. “Most likely, sir.”

“A shame,” Ra’s said, rising to his feet. Tim blinked rapidly, head spinning.

“Sir?” he asked, and tried to rise. His knees buckled beneath him, and he toppled to the floor.

“I regret that this is necessary,” Ra’s said, his voice coming from far away. “I cannot have your expertise turned to another’s service, Timothy.”

***

Tim would die from this if he didn’t do something. He could tell, the knowledge almost abstract, unreal, through the burn of fever. He recognized the symptoms, and the irony was bitter enough to choke on. This was the virus he’d crafted for Damian, years ago.

Ra’s’ sense of dramatics was ridiculously predictable. And it made him careless.

Tim rolled to his hands and knees, ignoring the black spots that rolled across his vision. the thing about viruses-no matter what else they did-was that they had a minimum time they needed to incubate before they could kill. They hijacked cells to replicate, and it took time to reach the critical mass needed to overwhelm the body. Even the most fatal of viruses couldn’t kill in mere minutes.

The carrier agent for this particular virus was more immediately dangerous than the virus itself. It was responsible for the dizziness, blurred vision, loss of muscle control, fever and erratic heartbeat of the initial symptoms, and it weakened the body enough to leave it vulnerable to the viral infection.

It was also deactivated by butterfat. The target Tim had designed it for was a strict vegan, so there had been little chance he’d inadvertently cure himself, and Tim always built in safety mechanisms to his creations in case a lab accident resulted in an outbreak.

He hauled himself upright, leaning against the table leg, and eyed the butter dish in resignation. He need a minimally adulterated dose to be safe, and the larger the better.

“This is disgusting,” Tim said weakly, and reached for the butter dish.  
***

Three days later, Tim stood on the doorstep of Wayne manor, and knocked.

“Can I help you, young man?” Alfred Pennyworth asked.

Tim smiled crookedly. “Is Damian in?”


End file.
